Barrow Fields a twist, a tale, a rip through my sail

She drew aside her ears with lukewarm interest as he described his living arrangements, and felt the cusp of a deceiver's anlace dig between her shoulder-blades. The deception she felt was felt unjustly so––his exposure to the nature of his Alpha's comrade was not a heuristic process; Tachyon clearly hadn't felt imposed upon by her in any shape, shadow, or form, and even more clearly, Caiaphas herself hadn't laid bare the unsavoriness of her character to Donnelaith. 

Otherwise, his packfellows landed on the unscrupulous side of the coin, and weren't opposed to her practices. Bile gathered in her throat at the thought.

Like a disobedient dog resisting the insistent yanking of his tether, Lusca pulled back at his suggestion. She was openly soured to the idea of seeking refuge under boon companions of the termagant––the root of all evil in her scarcely traveled world. "Security. That's home." She snipped, low-set head swinging skyward in a gesture of decisiveness. "I won't fain to live amongst her friends." 

Too weary to snub his advance, Luc relented to Tachyon's trillion-count rosette of kisses. His public displays of affection were to be expected and routinely disciplined, but after enduring weeks of harsh rebukes as the dross and dregs of Saltwinter's hierarchy, gentle physical contact was a favored change. 

Slinking unbidden to his side, she brushed her muzzle under his grizzled chin, permissive of his doting.